


I Speak No Comfort

by enigma_kar



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Needs more Thranduil, Slightly Hopeful Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 02:30:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2905940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigma_kar/pseuds/enigma_kar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And that is how Thranduil finds Bilbo - still cradled against Thorin’s body and shivering against the gathering cold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Speak No Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> This contains SPOILERS for The Hobbit: Battle of the Five Armies.

**I Speak No Comfort**

High above the raging battle, upon Ravenhill, one hobbit and one dwarf lie together in the falling snow. A soft wind sends the white flakes whirling around them; dancing in the pale light and then fading when they land. It should be beautiful. But red is still pooling out onto the pure icy ground, there is so much blood it makes Bilbo gag and choke. There was always too much blood.

And new tears well in Bilbo’s eyes as he realises it is over. They fall thick and fast down his face, splashing onto Thorin’s now motionless form.

“No...” Bilbo chokes on the word. “Please no... Thorin! Thorin, I... I...”

But Bilbo cannot get any more words out. The King Under The Mountain has spoken his last and the hobbit just cradles the dwarf fiercely, howling in pain. He no longer cares if he becomes covered in blood. He does not care if his cries bring more orcs. Nothing matters. Not anymore. His Thorin is gone. Kíli and Fíli are likely gone and nothing will ever matter again. In that moment he wants to be dead too.

Bilbo presses their foreheads together. And then, without thinking; without caring who sees it, Bilbo is kissing Thorin’s brow, his temple, his cheeks. He kisses the still-warm lips of his king and prays with all his heart that Thorin will respond. But he does not.

~ *XX* ~

And that is how Thranduil finds him: still cradled against Thorin’s body and shivering against the gathering cold. The Elvenking stands comfortably on the slippery, frozen ground as though it is stone and surveys the scene before him. Deep inside his heart clenches; raw emotions surfacing once again.

It’s love.

He’s already seen it shining on Tauriel’s face. He’s seen it in his son’s eyes. And he sees it again now as he watches the hobbit pull Thorin Oakenshield’s body closer.

It hurts.

It hurts more than he ever could have imagined. Vivid images flood his mind as suddenly it is _he_ cradling his _wife_ before him. She was dead before he even reached her. And for years his grief knew no bounds; the only thing keeping him alive was his love for his son.

_NO!_

It’s enough to make the Elvenking stumble backwards on the ice, one hand unconsciously grasping at his chest as if to rip out his heart. Just to make it stop hurting. He turns away, forcing the images away and looks over the ice to Azog’s body. The elvish blade, Orcrist, is still buried up to the hilt in the white orc’s chest, pinning him to the ice. The elf pushes the remnants of his memories back as he walks towards the dead foe.

Thranduil pulls the blade free with an almost languid movement and admires its length. He knows it belongs with Oakenshield. The blade was forged by his kin, but it is the dwarfs now. Slowly, he returns to Bilbo’s side and the hobbit meets his eyes with an unexpected fierceness.

 “Master Baggins...” the Elvenking says in greeting. “You need not be so protective of your king. I should be more inclined to defend you than not.”

“Then help him,” Bilbo says urgently, his manners all but forgotten. “You can help Thorin. Bring him back. Please bring him back.”

Thranduil knows his eyes are shining with emotion as he kneels down beside the small man. He caresses a finger gently along the dwarf’s cheek, staring at the smearing blood in some kind of wonder. After a moment he speaks: “I cannot,” he says sadly, bowing his head.

“You can!” Bilbo argues. “I know you can! You’re an elf, the Elvenking. You must be able to. Please, set aside your prejudices and bring him back!”

Once upon a time, Thranduil would have argued back. But not today. Today his heart is filled with the memory of his wife and all he feels is sorrow and pity for the hobbit that has been placed so out of his depth. “There is no power on this world that can bring him back now,” Thranduil says, as kindly as possible. “I am truly sorry.”

“But... h-h-he was my... friend.”

Thranduil does not deny it. “I know how it feels to have your love mingled with grief,” he says, the words drawn up from deep inside his chest.

“Why does it hurt so much?” Bilbo’s voice breaks again and fresh tears spill over his face.

“Because it was real.”

They hold each other’s gaze for a long moment and Bilbo knows there is nothing the Elvenking can do. He turns away with a sob and buries his face in Thorin’s chest. He cries until his eyes are sore and his chest feels like exploding. He cries until he can barely breathe; until his entire being is screaming in pain. And Thranduil lets him. He does not comfort, for he knows there is no comfort for such pain within all the circles of the world. And if a tear slips down the Elvenking’s pale face, then there is no one to see it.

~ *XX* ~

It is eons later when Gandalf joins them (for Thranduil did not have the heart to leave poor Bilbo), followed by the remainder of Thorin’s company. Snow is falling thick and fast and Bilbo feels it clinging to his eyelashes as he raises his head from Thorin. Shaking with sudden cold, he stares at the gathered dwarves, not caring how red his eyes must look.

He will never forget their yells and cries. Bilbo will remember until the end of his life: the feel of Thorin’s icy body and the cries of his anguished kin.

“THORIN!”

“BILBO!”

 “NO!! _THORIN_!!”

Dwalin carries Fíli’s limp form in his arms and despite the numbness, Bilbo feels another wave of misery wash over him. The young dwarf is laid beside his uncle. Another flash of red passes Bilbo’s vision and he flinches, thinking of blood. But it is only the brilliant red of hair: the she-elf, Tauriel. In her arms is Kíli and she places him gently beside his brother. The last of Durin’s line, together for a final time.

Thranduil places Orcrist across Thorin’s breast before standing to join his kin. “This belongs to Thorin Oakenshield,” he says, raising his voice so all can hear him. “The sword that killed Azog the Defiler belongs to the King Under The Mountain.”

He is met with a stunned silence. The dwarves are already too deep in grief to respond.

“I take my leave of you now, Master Baggins,” Thranduil says turning to Bilbo alone and placing a hand on his chest in a farewell salute.

Bilbo stares up at him and tries to find a way to thank the Elvenking, but the words stick in his throat. He ducks his head awkwardly before finally rasping. “Your jewels will be returned to you,” he says. Bilbo glances nervously at the gathering dwarves, but they do not oppose the offer; they do not question his command.  “I-I promise you will get what you are due.”

“I thank you,” Thranduil says. “Your actions have shown you are a true friend of my kin.”

Bilbo blushes, but the Elvenking is already stepping away. Tauriel’s face is a mask as she retreats with her king, but somehow Bilbo knows she is feeling the same mixture of anguish and anger that he is. And Balin is suddenly there, holding Bilbo’s hand as he weeps. Thick tears drip into his white beard. The hobbit looks around at the company, watching with renewed sorrow as they fall to their knees in insurmountable misery. It is truly bitter that their journey must end this way.

And automatically, it seems, Bilbo’s hand closes around the acorn that is miraculously still in his breast pocket. If he tries hard enough he can still picture Thorin smiling at him. He talks of planting his trees and Thorin is smiling at him. Bilbo sees it clearly in his mind: there is no more sickness, only fondness and warmth in the dwarf’s smile. To that memory alone, he will hold fast. He will plant his trees.

And for one small, hopeful moment the snow doesn’t seem so cold.


End file.
